


The Flat Downstairs

by Davechicken



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fluff and Angst, M/M, No houseplants were harmed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-06
Updated: 2020-09-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:15:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26321020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Davechicken/pseuds/Davechicken
Summary: Crowley. Houseplants.Things and stuff.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 22
Kudos: 106





	The Flat Downstairs

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lisalicious](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lisalicious/gifts).



There is a curious part of London which has, statistically speaking, the two greatest collections of houseplants in the world. (Statistics being simply another form of advanced lying, and subjective truth on beauty and success aside.)

The ‘greatest’ collection simply being the most verdant and technically accomplished. Not a leaf out of place, or mis-sized. No visible blemish, and the greenest green you ever saw.

This is not about those plants.

This is about the second greatest collection.

They are, of course, linked.

***

Without fail, whenever the nice young man* (* not young, not a man, and arguably ‘not nice’) swaggered his concentric hips down the stairs, balancing the rim of a plant pot off one extended finger in a dalliance that not so much defied the laws of physics, but definitely toed the line… he would bump into the nice old lady* (definitely nice, definitely old, not a lady) who lived in the flat below his.

Such a coincidence shouldn’t happen, except: why not? Coincidences do happen. All the time. And explaining them away (she heard the sound of the shredding machine, or the footsteps) was not really needed.

“Good afternoon, dear.”

“Ah, fancy seeing you here.”

“Leaf spots?”

The red-head nods, and the pot rolls back and forth on the tip of his finger. The plant trembles. 

“It’s just going in the bin, so--”

The woman smiles, and continues unlocking her front door. Her hands are sure, despite their age, and she follows the steps of the dance they do. “I’ll put the kettle on.”

***

Crowley does not admit that he should already have shredded the plant, and has told all the other (green, green) ones that he has. He can’t actually remember what he planned to do the first time he took one aside for being imperfect, but he knows that this works better.

The old woman’s flat is filled with just as many plants as his. Unlike his, though, the leaves have wandered a little to the wild. Instead of uniform coverage and perfect hues, there’s variegation and the odd hole. The pots they live in are no two of them the same, with chipped corners and hand-painted designs. Each one seems to have its own little personality, and Crowley eyes them around the edges of his glasses, as surreptitiously as he can.

They seem… happy. 

He politely doesn’t drink his tea, but nurses his hands around the warm mug, as the latest graduate to the second-best collection is transferred into an earthenware pot on a draining dish that had once been a side plate. 

“How have you been keeping?”

“Oh, you know. Same old. Business and what have you… terribly boring.”

“I’m sure. You should let your hair down more.”

It’s short at the minute. He’s worn it longer, but he knows the saying is figurative, and he wonders what she’d think if she knew her advice was to a demon. To stop doing evil and… what? Just… have fun? (It was kind of what he tried to do, anyway. Just enough to coast through without undue interest from below, and then do what he actually wanted.)

The tea does smell nice, and it reminds him of someone else. He should call by, later. Find some excuse. Slither in with a box of cream cakes or… something…

“How is your friend?” she asks, as if she could read his mind.

Without needing to, he swallows. Guilty pleasures, guilty thoughts. He shouldn’t be -- well. When has he ever done what he should?

“He’s… good.” A pun, which he hides his smile over. Good. Angel. Heh. Six thousand years old and he’s still so easily amused. “That shop you recommended was right up his alley.” He can’t, quite, say ‘thanks’, but he somehow knows it’s understood. 

It’s odd. Crowley has had acquaintances over the years. Mostly he avoids Humans as anything deeper, because they die so damnably fast, and then you have to find new ones and not feel bad about whatever it is they’ve gone to meet in the ever-after. 

Aziraphale is his only real, true friend. And one who still half-denies their very friendship (which doesn’t hurt) but who has known him since the year dot. And who mostly doesn’t mind the fact that he’s one of the damned. And who doesn’t get all unsettled by his existence, most of the time.

But this one. This old lady, who lives below him, who takes in his wayward plant-children…

She doesn’t seem to be forever trying to peer behind his armoured sunglasses. Or stare at his snake-clad feet. She greets him warmly, takes an interest in his life. She doesn’t mind the flaws in his rejected flora, and she… well. He feels… a little better, every time he visits. He feels like she notices him. Not just notices… 

Ugh.

It’s silly, and he shouldn’t be looking for what he is looking for, and it’s just that he wants it so very, very much. He’s - what’s that word - transferring? Projecting? Something. 

It’s pathetic. 

He doesn’t need anything from her, or anyone, or--

“There we go, good as gold,” she coos, and puts the freshly re-potted plant on the occasional table beside him. 

The plant still trembles, but it’s not entirely fear, now. Hope, maybe. 

Crowley tries to ignore it, but he understands, all the same. 

“It’ll do, I guess. I was just going to throw it away, so if it makes you happy…”

“It does,” she insists, and pats the back of his hand. 

He wasn’t going to throw it away. He isn’t sure what he was going to do. He just. Takes them downstairs. And they get adopted. 

And they flourish, here. Growing weird and twisted. Oddly-shaped and coloured. They find new purpose, and they’re… loved. That’s why they’re so striking. They’re loved, and they know they are. It glows from somewhere inside, and it hurts to be near them, but it’s the kind of hurt you want more of.

He pulls his hand back, because it’s too much. 

Too much, being here. Around such a cacophony that his head can’t cope. All. Happy. And. It’s--

“I should be going,” he says, and gulps the tea down faster than any Human throat could manage. 

“Of course, it’s been lovely seeing you again. Send my love to your friend, won’t you?”

He never does. Aziraphale doesn’t know about this, and he can’t. Crowley makes a non-committal sound and fusses the mugs to the kitchen. Have to keep tidy. Have to do the ri-- have to--

“I’ll make some flapjack for him next time, if you let me know.”

“Thanks,” he mumbles, and picks up the empty, old pot. He still needs to convince the other plants that there are consequences to your actions. You can’t go around screwing up and there _not_ be a consequence. That would be anarchy. You’d never get anyone to do anything without **consequences**. They’d just do what they wanted. 

It’s a guilty pleasure to think otherwise. 

That you could…

He shuffles out, fighting the blush that wants to surface, trying to compose himself. He has to look harsh and unyielding. He has to erase any frivolous scent of perfume and flowers and tea. He has to let go of any insanely dumb feeling of, just maybe… it not being all over and… like you could be less than perfect and…

Crowley lauds the empty pot and empty threats to a room full of terrified plants that know no better, and it aches in his belly as he does it. 

He got no better. He got thrown down the celestial stairs. There was no one at the bottom to take _him_ in. 

No one to say---

He stalks out and leaves the leaves shaking, hating himself all the more for it, and wondering if maybe he should find some way to bring London crashing to a halt again, just because.

He stops, by his car, the keys in his hand and his thumb chasing over the castles in the metal. He wants to go back and ask for more tea and know he’ll get it. Know he can tell her everything, and she will listen. 

But she couldn’t understand. And he can’t be forgiven. And he certainly can’t be…

Just because he feels it, sometimes, when he’s there. Or sometimes, with his angel. 

It doesn’t mean it’s real. 

He feels the churn in a gut that isn’t wholly needed, and wonders if maybe he could, instead, torment someone undying and eternal, in a way that - if he’s honest (and he’s a demon, so he doesn’t need to be, even if he usually is) isn’t actually that tormenting. It’s a lie, it’s a convenient lie, like the shredding machine noises.

Crowley squints out at the skyline of London town, and feels the pull between the never-ending plunge of the Fall, and the tantalising scent of tea and home. 

The keys glint as he tosses them, and chooses.

***

The second-best collection of house plants in the world is perhaps a misnomer. It all depends on your criteria. The leaves are irregular. The path to the end result vary. But between the spots and missing pieces, they glow with the love they know. 

The nice old lady (who is old, and nice, but not a lady… or a lady, and more than just a lady) loves them. 

She always has. She always will. 

She watches as an angel and a demon - neither of them perfect, and yet perfect in their own way - twist and turn around obstacles and reach for the sun. 

She has always watched them. She has always loved them.

She always will.


End file.
